by S. Massery
I bite my lip.
Am I lost?
“It can take time and soul searching,” he adds. “And reconnecting with your past. If you want to talk to anyone—”
“A therapist?” I shudder. I’ve talked to too many state-mandated psychologists for my liking. There was nothing wrong with them, except their soul-sucking nature and endless questions.
“Or your dad,” he says quietly.
I freeze.
“He’s only twenty-five minutes away,” he continues. “And we’d be happy to take you if you—”
“I’m not ready for that.” I look out the window and decide to admit one thing. One ugly feeling. “I tried to visit him when I was twelve. Angela said I was on the approved list. But we got there, and he had revoked it because it was no place for…”
Robert is silent.
I lamely finish, “A child. And technically, I’m still one.”
“You’ve grown up a lot since you last tried,” he says. “I can reach out to Angela, see if we can arrange something—”
“Please,” I whisper. “Not today.”
He pulls up to the curb. “Len will be home early today, okay?”
“I think I’m just going to catch up on homework and be antisocial for a while.”
“Perfectly acceptable.” He winks. “Go on, now.”
I climb out of the car, glancing back once. I push the door open, and then he leaves. And I’m alone.
Finally.
9
Caleb
Amelie smirks at me from her table at lunch. She came in late, her gaze finding me and lingering. Riley is at our table, down at the end with Eli and Liam.
They know I’m in no mood to be nice.
My bad mood isn’t infectious, but it sure does stink. That’s what Theo told me approximately ten minutes ago while I waited for Margo to return to sanity.
Riley’s phone chimes, and my head automatically turns.
She glances from Eli to me, then frowns.
“What is it?” I snap.
Riley flinches.
I lean over Theo and snatch her phone away.
Margo: Robert took me home.
I growl under my breath and slide her phone back.
“Dude,” Eli says. “Not cool.”
“What’s not fucking cool is Margo playing this cat-and-mouse game.” I stand, my attention tripping over Amelie again. She’s got a shit-eating grin—which means she’s probably up to something. “Fucking hell.”
She stands and meets me halfway, running her finger down my chest.
I grab her wrist, squeezing hard enough to send a message. Don’t fucking touch me.
“You like using girls?” she asks, a slight shake to her voice. “I told her where the text came from.”
I drop her arm like burning coal. “You trying to make your life miserable?”
She frowns. “I had to. She’s finally standing up to you—”
“You know nothing,” I growl. Margo standing up to me—my blood runs hot. Hotter, anyway.
I couldn’t have possibly predicted that I would like her fire. But damn it, I think I do.
I brush past Amelie, more than done with this conversation.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
Her and I both know the photo of Ian and Margo didn’t originate with Savannah. Whatever games she’s playing, I can do better.
And so can Margo.
I’m halfway down the hall when Coach steps out. He takes one look at me and scowls.
“Asher, with me.”
I gnash my teeth, but I follow him to his office.
“Sit.”
I do. It takes a lot of effort to not jig my foot or tap my fingers against my thigh. Calm, cool, collected. Coach takes lacrosse seriously. His whole career rides on it. If one of us screws up, we’re out.
It’s how it’s always been.
“You’re slipping.” He sits across from me, leaning his elbows on the desk. It’s covered in papers, but he doesn’t seem to care. The whole office is organized chaos.
“Not sure how you mean, Coach.” Grades are fine—better than fine—and I’m running again. We haven’t started practice, but I’ll be in tip-top shape soon enough.
Okay, it was just the one run. But we’re getting back into it.
Not that I ever really lost it.
“This girl.” He flashes a photo at me. The disastrous photo that caused half the school to turn on Margo. But hey, at least the video was scrubbed from the servers.
I did something right for once.
“What about her?”
“Is she going to fuck with your head?” He slams the phone down, grimacing. “Teenagers are brutal. But you’re not just a teenager. You’re the captain.”
A golden boy.
School royalty.
“You’re not telling me anything new.” I lean back. Fuck Coach and thinking this sport gives him free reign over my life. Over what I do with Margo. “She isn’t a problem.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? So you weren’t about to skip.”
“No one fucking cares, Coach.”
He lunges across the desk and grabs my shirt collar, jerking me up. “Don’t play that game with me.”
I glance down at his fingers curled in the fabric at my throat.
We clash sometimes. He’s the original golden boy—the original asshole who ruled Emery-Rose when he was a student. Football and lacrosse god with a temper to match his infamy.
“Fine,” I grit out.
“Smooth sailing,” Coach says. “Now until graduation. Your choice of schools, right?”
He releases me, and I slowly retake my seat. He does the same.
“Where are you applying?”
I shrug. “Mom wants me to go for Harvard.”
He snorts. “And?”
“And I’m thinking…” I don’t know.
It’s forever away.
“Deadlines are approaching,” he says. “You toured schools over the summer.”
“Have you been talking to my mother?” My anger is waking up again. How dare she call my coach? “Is that what prompted this whole fucking thing?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Coach.”
“Cool it, Caleb. I can see the smoke coming out of your ears.”
“Because she—”
“Loves you?”
No.
Because she’s worse than Uncle when it comes to twisting the world into her own masterpiece. No one else’s opinions matter.
“What’d she say?”
“She wants you to apply for Harvard,” he says. “Early decision.”
I cough. “Fuck, no.” That would lock me into it if I got in—and there’s a high chance someone would donate in the Asher name, and suddenly I’d be hiking my ass up to Cambridge, Massachusetts.
“Make a list,” he orders, standing. “I want to see where you’re thinking of going.”
I stand, too. I know a dismissal when I hear one.
I don’t wait for him to roll out the red carpet and usher me out. Instead of going back the way I came, I head for the boys’ locker room. There’s a door in the back, much like the girls’ locker room. I unhook the alarm and shove the door open.
So fucking done.
A quick trip later, I’m walking up the path next to my house. I unlock the door to Margo’s old home and turn on a light. We rarely came in here as kids. I think her mom preferred the luxury of the main house—or the solitude after we were gone.
Her parents’ room is a wreck. The door is still closed from the last time we went in there.
This house doesn’t affect me like it does Margo. But then again, these aren’t memories to me. They’re stories Keith Wolfe spun on the stand, begging for a not guilty verdict—until he took the plea deal. It’s easy to distance myself from them, especially with what happened after.
He got what was coming to him.
His lies encompassed all of us. Me, my par
ents, Margo, her mother.
She doesn’t know—but she might begin to unravel it. She’s digging. Trying to remember.
I open the door to Margo’s old room and cross to her dresser. That day she made me bring her here before the game played out again. I click on the flashlight on my phone, preferring that to the yellow glow of the lamp on her nightstand. The bulb would probably go if I tried it.
I close the door and touch the scratches in the painted wood.
She would’ve been panicked. Trapped.
What would make a ten-year-old that desperate to get out?
Old blood has dried to a dark brown.
I wince.
On the dresser is what I came for: the bracelet Margo refuses to wear. I palm it, holding it tightly for a moment before sliding it into my pocket. Half of me wants to march back to her room and superglue the latch—then she really would be stuck with it.
But… that’s not the right approach.
Patience.
I exhale. She’s serious. She’s furious with me. Or, she could be bluffing. Puffing her anger into something more.
Did I get what I want? Yes. But I also… misstepped.
Fuck.
I did what I wanted to do: I broke her. Getting caught wasn’t part of the plan, and neither was her memory issue.
We belong together. I wasn’t lying, but it isn’t sinking in for her.
“Option B,” I say to myself.
I can play it her way—I’ll let her come to me.
I lost her once. I’ll be damned if I’ll lose her again.
10
Margo
My bed dips.
I don’t flinch. I knew he would come. I knew he would figure out a way to get in, even if my bedroom window was locked.
Caleb’s hand coasts up my arm.
Goosebumps break out, but I keep my eyes closed.
His thumb caresses the hollow point at the base of my throat. I swallow as his fingers wind around it. He squeezes softly.
“What—”
“Shh,” he whispers. His lips touch my ear. “Don’t fucking speak.”
I open my eyes. He isn’t applying enough pressure to cause a reaction, but the look in his eyes… My heart picks up speed.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says in my ear. “You’re not going to move. You’re not going to make a sound.” He withdraws and meets my gaze.
His thumb brushes over my lips.
“If you make any noise, they’re going to know.”
I glance at my bedroom door.
It’s wide open.
Fuck.
The fact that it’s the middle of the night doesn’t mean anything. It almost makes it worse, because any little sound is amplified in the darkness.
He sits up, tugging my pajama shorts down in one swift motion. Fear—and something else—paralyzes me for a second.
I bite my lip. I know he’s serious. And at the same time…
No.
His hands go to my shirt, and it wakes me up. I slap his hands away.
“Get away from me,” I whisper-yell. I pull myself upright, shrinking back against the headboard. “I don’t want you here, Caleb. I don’t—”
He reaches out and lifts a strand of my hair. The softness of it gives me pause. And I notice that he’s actually listened—he stopped.
“It’s always been us,” he says.
“It hasn’t,” I answer. “It’s used to be us. Now there’s nothing.”
“Prove it,” he demands. He shifts to his knees. “Prove there’s nothing there.”
I mirror him, rising on my knees. We’re chest to chest.
“Why does everything need to be proven?” I ask. “Why can’t you just accept—”
He kisses me.
I let him—but I don’t kiss him back.
His tongue slides across the seam of my lips, and I just press them tighter together. His hand winds through my hair, holding my head still, and he tries to get a reaction out of me.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat.
I give him nothing.
“You’re killing me,” he whispers.
I meet his stare. We’re still kissing-close. Our noses brush.
You killed me first. “Good.”
He releases me.
“I want you to hurt.” My chest aches, and I’d love nothing more than for him to know what I’m going through. “I want you to feel it.”
“You want an apology?” he asks, shifting to the side and pressing his lips to my cheek. “You want me to say I’m sorry and beg for forgiveness?”
I will not bend.
Maybe he can sense the yes forming on my tongue.
“It won’t happen, love. We’re meant to be broken.” He takes hold of my chin, tipping my head back until I meet his gaze.
I hadn’t realized I looked away.
“You and I can’t do happy or perfect or neat like you think you’re going to get,” he continues. His grip tightens. “Maybe you’ll see that eventually.”
“Get out,” I breathe.
He drops his hand and stands. “Dream of me.”
I shake my head. “I won’t.”
It hurts. I’m pushing him away—and yes, he started it. He drove the first nail into this coffin. But now I’m the one being strong, and he… he won’t beg. I already know.
“We’re inevitable,” he says. “You’ll see.”
He walks out, back into the hallway. I guess that’s how he came in. Foolish of me to think that a locked window would keep the devil out.
He holds something up, but I can’t see it in the darkness. “I know you don’t remember, but if you want to… You know where I’ll be.” He tosses it onto my dresser and leaves.
My breath catches in my chest. I almost expect the stairs to creak, the front door to slam—something to alert the Jenkinses of his presence. But he’s a ghost. Here one minute, gone the next.
I’ll give him one thing: he sparked my curiosity.
But to get up would be to give in, whether he’s here or not. He’d know. And me asking him for help? No.
Never.
I burrow back under my covers and close my eyes.
That lasts about… two minutes.
I pop out of bed and close my door, flicking on the light. Ridiculous, I think to myself. He knows how to get in my head, and I hate it.
My bracelet sits on the dresser. I’d returned it to my old house, and he… he knew. And he returned it.
I run my finger over the web of metal, shaking my head. I can’t do this right now. I can’t forgive him.
I leave it where it is and crawl back into bed. I don’t have the energy to try to deal with Caleb’s mental games. After everything that’s happened today, my mind hasn’t stopped spinning.
My conversation with Amelie about Caleb’s meddling… she thinks I shouldn’t let him get away with it. Well, I won’t.
And then the more devastating piece of news: Savannah texted him the picture.
My eyes pop open again. I can’t believe that I forgot about it. Savannah is Unknown.
I should’ve suspected her sooner.
I sit up and grab my phone, scrolling through past messages with Unknown. I linger on the picture of Ian and me. Is it true? Does Savannah have that big of a vendetta against me that she’d try to ruin my life—and threaten me to stay away from Caleb?
She was at the party where the video was taken. And while she had some noticeable absences from school, I’m pretty sure she was there the day Ian dragged me into the woods. But…
Something doesn’t feel right about it.
Why would she do such a thing?
I shake my head. Caleb’s right: I need answers. But I doubt he has them. I never mentioned Unknown to him—whether that was a bright idea or not, I can’t say.
Imagine if he’s in on it.
That’s another possibility.
I put my phone on the nightstan
d, flopping back.
The suspects are:
Amelie.
Savannah.
Ian. Yes, Ian, even though he was the one in the picture. He could’ve paid someone to take it and send it to Caleb. He could’ve paid Savannah.
Caleb.
I grimace. His whole friend group is on my suspect list. Any of them could want me to stay away from him for his own sake. For his sanity.
And I’m also well aware that it could be no one on my list. It could be… literally anyone.
“Fuck,” I whisper. I resign myself to a night of fitful sleep. Every so often, my thoughts circle back to the bracelet on the dresser, and Caleb’s…
You’re killing me.
Right back atcha.
He’s confusing and complicated.
Eventually, I fall asleep. I dream of Caleb and my mother.
They’re arguing in his house, just beside the screen door. I can see them from where I’m crouched. Caleb has gray streaks in his hair, and my mom is red in the face. Their hands wave. Their lips move, but I hear nothing. Spit flies from Caleb’s mouth, and I instinctively hunch lower. Their anger scares me. I’m frozen in my hiding place.
I wish I could hear what they’re saying.
She throws a glass. I scream, and both of them stare at me.
Someone yanks me backward.
I fall and fall and fall.
Caleb catches me. He squints. His face is young—fourteen instead of seventeen. “Be more careful, Margo.”
“You were just fighting with my mom,” I say, shaking my head. I look around. There’s nothing but high grass around us. “Where are we?”
“We used to come here,” he answers. He mirrors my actions, head swinging back and forth. “Don’t you like it?”
Don’t you like it?
“I don’t…” I don’t recognize this place. It’s just grass and bright-blue sky, the sun so hot on my skin. “Why were you fighting with Mom?”
His face hardens. “I wasn’t.”
He drops me.
I fall right through the ground, straight into darkness. Straight into my bedroom.
I lunge for the door, but it’s locked. Everything is blurry. Big fat tears fall down my face, and I pound on the door.
“Let me out!” I scream. “Let me out let me out let me—”